


Scorched Earth

by Avierra



Category: Saiyuki
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-07
Updated: 2015-06-07
Packaged: 2018-04-03 06:26:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4090438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avierra/pseuds/Avierra





	Scorched Earth

**Fandom:** Saiyuki  
**Title:** Scorched Earth  
**Author/Artist:** Avierra  
**Warnings: language**  
**Pairing(s):** Cho Hakkai (aka Eric von Wermut)/ Sha Gojyo (aka Charles Rideau)  
**Notes: For the Battle #1 challenge prompt:** WWII soldiers who met on the battlefield, but act on their love after the war **.** I hope this is up your alley, Anon! **(Points to Gojyo)  
**

The first time he sees his opponent’s face, it is through the lens of his sniper rifle’s telescopic sight. He watches as his opponent stands in the midst of his men, his sword out, his expression impassioned as he speaks to them. And they’re hanging on his every word. The guy’s some sort of wizard, apparently, masterfully leading his troops in and out of places they’d no business being. Like now.

Well, he isn’t where he’s supposed to be either, so he can’t really take exception to that.

He’s probably the most beautiful man Charles has ever seen, with his high cheekbones, long eyes and dark hair. He would have thought someone who looked like that would be a little too “exotic” to be a Nazi, but he can clearly make out the officer’s insignia on the guy’s shoulder and collar. He readies himself to take the shot—it’s clean all the way-- but something makes him hesitate.

Then he re-aims, adjusts his rifle, and takes the shot. The guy’s sword goes flying out of his hand and hits some poor bastard standing next to him. The guy’s arm is maybe broken given the way he holding it, but he doesn’t even cry out, and instead of screaming about it, his gaze is scanning the wood-covered hills where Charles lies concealed. It’s almost as if he knows exactly where Charles is. But probably there just aren’t that many places from where he could have shot. And better his arm be broken than a bloody hole in that pretty face.

The troops around him hit the deck, awaiting a barrage that won’t come. He waits for them to come swarming up the hills, but it’s okay, he won’t be caught, not today.

“Shit, too bad, thought you had that. Wait ‘till I tell the guys you whiffed a shot,” snickers his buddy as they hurriedly break down their gear and scurry off.

Charles feels eyes boring in his back all the way back to their encampment.

 

The second time Charles sees his opponent, he escorts him blindfolded to an impromptu meeting place where they are, or will be, sitting across the table from each other. A request has been made through their mutual spy networks to have a meeting.

Right now, they’re all kind of milling around making small talk before the meeting.

It’s 1943. Charles is two years older, and he guesses the guy is also. The guy removes the blindfold and lets his eyes adjust to the light. The guy’s gaze keeps straying to his face. He has very green eyes, almost unnaturally so.

The guy holds out his hand to shake before the proceedings begin. “ _Oberst_ Eric von Wermut. Have we met? Perhaps before the war. You look very familiar. But I honestly think I would have remembered the hair,” he says finally. His voice is light and cultured, just like Charles had imagined it would be.

“ _Colonel_ Charles Rideau. I don’t believe so,” he responds, shaking the guy’s hand. It’s probably not opportune to inform him that he had the chance to blow his head off two years ago.

“Hmmm,” says the guy, and it’s clear he’s trying to solve a puzzle.

No one is in uniform-- it would be dangerous for all of them-- but they all introduce themselves and get down to business. The _Oberst_ is dressed in peasant clothing, a wool cap shading his face, but he might as well be wearing royal robes for how inconspicuous he isn’t.

 _Oberst_ von Wermut has a proposition to lay before them. He, and some others who he does not name, are trying to end the war. They have a plan to assassinate Hitler. He is willing try to accomplish this feat, but he wants some guarantees as to the fate of his country if they do so.

Unfortunately for him, despite his having proffered some intelligence as a token of his good will, some of the officers with whom he is meeting today have been fighting Nazis for many years, and most of them are not particularly willing to make concessions.

“We’re willing to negotiate peace, but only if Germany unconditionally surrenders,” says a British General.

 _Oberst_ von Wermut doesn’t respond for a moment, then he rises. “I cannot offer that, of course. But I will, of course, convey your message to my colleagues. I am quite sorry to have wasted your time.” He bows, and hands his blindfold to Charles. “Perhaps you would be kind enough escort me back to the church.”

Charles wraps the silk around his eyes, then guides him out.

They walk for about fifteen minutes, and Charles says, “Take that thing off before you fall and kill yourself.”

“Aren’t you worried I’ll betray you, or try to capture you?” asks von Wermut. He smiles.

“Nah.” They walk in silence in the dark for a while longer. Charles decides to take the long way back to the church rendezvous. He’s curious about the _Oberst_ , and puzzled as to his motivations.

“Why are you doing this?” he finally asks.

“I’m not doing it. I’ve been cut off at the knees, as you doubtlessly heard.” Von Wermut’s voice is very even, but Charles can tell he’s unhappy.

“But, why would you?” They stop at the arch of a bridge and stare out over the water of the river below them.

“Do you love your country, Charles?” Charles blinks at this use of his name, but decides to answer.

He thinks of endless fields of flowers in the spring; the feel of the wind blowing off the mountains; the smell of village bakeries scenting the morning air; the most beautiful girls in the world walking to work. “Of course,” he says. He turns and looks at von Wermut, who is apparently engrossed in the river current.

“I love my country too, Charles. But Germany is going to lose the war. I am certain that is unavoidable at this point. And if something is not salvaged now, well, there will be other considerations after we lose that I would rather not see us—any of us-- undergo. I don’t mean another Treaty of Versailles type situation, although that is something that I believe should be taken under advisement. But perhaps that is a bridge to cross when we get there. Germany will not be the only casualty of war, I fear. It is a pity. But we’ll contrive, I suppose.”

He reaches over and claps Charles on the arm. “Farewell. Perhaps we’ll meet again under happier circumstances. I’ll see myself back from here.”

 

It’s 1944. Charles has been formally liaised to the _Bureau Central de Renseignements et d'Action_ \-- French intelligence. He’s happy enough developing connections with elements of the Resistance—he’s had ample contact with them over the course of the last few years in any case. And he likes travelling around the countryside.

He’s received a few breezy missives through intermediaries, but he doesn’t respond.

On July 20th, he hears rumors of an attempted coup against Hitler. He doesn’t pay it much mind at first—it isn’t the first time someone has tried to kill the bastard-- but in the days and weeks to come he hears of thousands of conspirators and their family members who have been rounded up.

Then come the drumhead courts-martial and the executions.

He wishes he had some means of finding out who has been killed. He wishes he had answered the fucking letters.

 

It’s spring of 1945. Charles is making use of an Allied base’s equipment to report in to the Free France command and to unwind for a few days. Events in France and elsewhere have become a trifle heated, but he thinks he can see the light at the end of the tunnel. If they can all manage to hang on.

The next time he sees _Oberst_ von Wermut he’s being escorted into a locked security area. He’s surrounded by American soldiers, and his hands are shackled in front of him. His pretty face is impassive, but his cheek and mouth is bruised and one eye is swollen shut. The front of his uniform is covered with blood. Charles wonders if he surrendered or if he was captured, because he can see that he has obviously not been treated particularly gently.

He catches sight of Charles, and the corner of his mouth quirks up. Then the green eyes (eye, Charles tells himself furiously) sweep over him and away, and something in Charles twists in a way that feels a lot like panic.

 

It’s November of 1946, and Charles has bought a little tavern in Provence. He needs warmth and sun these days. Some days he feels like it will never rise, and it’s always a bit of a surprise when it does.

Sometimes he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror when he’s shaving, and he doesn’t even recognize himself. The newish scars across his cheek—acquired during a raid gone horribly wrong-- don’t help. Not everyone was happy to see France liberated, and he should have realized that betrayal was always on the table, right up to the very end. But others in that particular raid had had it worse than he did, so he’s thankful that a couple of scars and few broken bones are the worst things he suffered.

Life goes on, and he hopes one day he _won’t_ be surprised to see the sun rise.

It’s 5:30 in the morning, and he’s drinking a cup of coffee. Military habits die hard. Maybe one day he’ll be able to sleep late, but he uses these early morning moments to prepare the tavern for the day: hauling water and firewood, getting ready to light the ovens. He has almost become domestic, but really his tavern is more of a gambling hall than a restaurant. But he likes to make sure there’s plenty of food and drink on hand for his “guests.”

He steps out the front door to smoke and finish sweeping out last night’s dirt, and there’s a figure standing in front of the door, cap spinning idly around a finger. There’s a dusty, battered suitcase at his feet.

“We’re not open, and we don’t have any positions available,” he informs the figure. The early morning sun is in his eyes, so he can’t see whoever it is, but he’s not really paying attention either. There are still too many lost men, too many drifters trying to find their way. Sometimes he has work he can give, but today isn’t one of those days.

“Alas,” says the figure in German-accented French, and he looks up at that.

Eric von Wermut is much thinner than the last time Charles has seen him, and he now sports an eyepatch. His clothes aren’t particularly poor quality, but he still looks like he should be wearing suits cut from the finest cloth.

There are lots of guys wandering around with missing eyes. Or arms. Or legs. Or worse. It’s not such an unusual event, but it wrenches at Charles' heart anyway.

“Hello Charles,” he says, and Eric’s trying to smile, but his mouth has apparently not understood that’s what it’s intended to do.

He grabs Eric’s arm and pulls him into the tavern, goes out and gets his bag, and locks the door behind them.

They stare at each other for a moment, and then Eric reaches out and traces the scars on Charles’ cheek. His fingers are cool. “Ah,” he says. He sounds sad. “I did hope you would escape unscathed.”

Charles shrugs. “That was never in the cards, I think.”

“Probably not.” Eric looks around, his eye taking in the interior of the tavern. “I thought…” he pauses. “I was curious how you were.” He smiles, a little grimly. “They wouldn’t tell me if you had survived. Eventually I had to refuse to cooperate. It took some time before they realized I was quite serious about my concerns.”

Charles has so many questions, but they can wait. He feels like something inside him has come back from the dead.

He pours Eric a cup of coffee, and fries him a couple of eggs. He only has yesterday’s bread, but he makes toast anyway, slathered with local honey. Eric watches him, and wordlessly devours his food with the ferocious delicacy of someone who hasn’t eaten properly in a while.

He pours Eric another cup of coffee and looks at him. “They told me you were dead.”

“Yes well, perhaps they didn’t want me to be distracted while they picked my brain. I honestly expected I would be executed.”

Charles had expected that as well, but he doesn’t want to think about it. As if he hasn’t thought about it every single day since he last saw Eric.

“Has it been picked?” He can’t imagine the careful planner he had met all those years ago wouldn’t have all sorts of contingencies lined up for the aftermath. And for whatever it was he foresaw coming after the war ended.

Eric smiles. “To a certain extent. But no, not really.” He sighs and fidgets with his napkin, and stands.

“Charles,” he says, and he sounds so sad and tired that Charles can’t bear it.

Before he is even aware he has done so, Charles is across the table, wrapping his arms around Eric. He doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing, but he’s not letting go. He _won’t_ let go, either. He’s not sure he even can.

“You’re not leaving,” he says, and he sounds fierce and desperate. But they’re the truest words he’s ever spoken.

He feels Eric’s shoulders heave, and then arms snake tight around his waist, and warm lips press an almost chaste kiss on his cheek.

He has lots more things he wants to say, but they’ll keep. He’s fine like this for now.


End file.
